Rolling Thunder
by LikeCrazyGood
Summary: Mater's pursuit of vengeance leads him into a conspiracy that will forever change his wacky world. Contains themes of depression, suicide, and existentialism.
1. The Pier

The water violently rippled as the tow line slowly emerged, a vehicle attached. Despondency filled the crisp, ocean air, as all those present looked on with horror.

"Don't… turn around, son…" was all Doc could utter. Mater blissfully complied, a dumb buck-toothed smile hanging on his face. He would have said something along the lines of "you betcha, Doc sir!" but he was hoarse from screaming at his wife the night before, so all that escaped was a quiet "hyeuh hchech ough hr".

"Talk to us, Doc. How'd ya know we'd find him here?"

Doc Hudson looked the sheriff of Coolant Coast square in the windshield and furrowed his sun visors. He was unsure of what he should and shouldn't say to Sheriff Mugabe (no relation to former prime minister of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, although everyone always asks him). He settled with the bald-faced lie, "when you're as old as me, you get an intuition for these sorts of things."

Mugabe was the stupidest sheriff to ever take charge of Coolant Coast, and he took it at face value. "Let's get him to the morgu-arage."

"What the hell did you just say to me?" Doc asked.

"It's a portmanteau of 'morgue' and 'garage' that the boys at marketing came up with. I paid too much money for the R&D to just not use it."

Mater followed as Doc and Mugabe led the way down the freeway. Behind Mater were several police escorts, all completely horrified by the cargo Mater was barreling down the road behind him. Most of all they regretted that their exhausts disallowed some form of retching.

"You don't use those turn signals of yours, do you Mūg?" (Doc and Mugabe went to the police academy together [they also committed treason together] so they were close enough to use nicknames.)

"No. And no one can arrest me for it."

Rolling into the city, Mater felt a swift change in the quality of the road, which did his tires well after the long hours spent hauling his cargo behind him. It was back-breaking work, but Mater had fallen on hard times, and he couldn't turn down a job if he wanted to support his family. Especially not a job from the feds.

Mater attempted to croak "this here road feels smoother than a fresh wax job," but all he could mutter was a violent, blood-infused cough, a result of the tuberculosis that he couldn't afford to have treated.

Doc braked and turned around, "You're paid for your ability, Mater, not for your disability. Pipe down."

The police department had no outer-identification, and appeared to have been built atop what once was a McTire's. As the entourage entered, the receptionist was sliding quarters in and out of a cash register; she was deep in thought, depressed over the fact that she could easily steal a bit of money every day from the police department, and that no one would notice or miss it, especially since the chief of police was notorious for embezzlement– and that's besides the fact that the department had been granted an excess of funds, all of which were misappropriately used, and none of which were used to raise the salaries of the large percentage of workers in the force who were underpaid, and constantly struggling to get by. If she would get over her own misguided moral compass and take the money that she needed to survive– no, the money that she deserved, she could get her tires realigned, windshield wipers replaced, and finally start living the life that she dreamed of.

"Looking hot today, Elizabeth," Mugabe wolf-whistled as he passed by the front desk. Other misogynistic, borderline sexual harassment comments followed by the rest of the local force as they passed by her.

Mater was led outside the freezer room, where Doc and Mugabe told him to wait. The two entered the room to privately discuss the situation. There was generally no sound-proofing throughout the entire building, so Mater could've heard everything, but he was busy theorycrafting for a JRPG he was renting over the weekend. The game leaned much more towards its character interactions and story than its combat, both in the development process and playtime, but every combat scenario was incredibly hard, and if a teammate died, they were dead forever. Due to this, Mater had been spending copious amounts of money buying loot boxes, hoping to give his team more powerful gear. He was struggling balance loot box funds and his bill payments, as well as hindering his wife from catching on– and he was far too entrenched in the story to let go of all the money he had sunk into the game.

Doc and Mugabe opened the doors and ushered Mater into the room, and across a metal plate, where the autopsies took place (the 'auto' in 'autopsies' refers to cars). "Slide him up there, Mater," Doc and Mugabe awkwardly said at the same time, causing them both to blush deeply and look away from one another. Mater acquiesced, unhooking the cargo on the platform and wheeling himself around as it raised up.

"Get the car-oner in here!" Mugabe shouted out the door.

Before Doc could open his mouth, Mugabe explained that it was a combination of "car" and "coroner," and that this too was a result of hiring a Marketing and Social Media division for the police department. The car-oner entered the room and revved his engine in exasperation, shouting, "OH, DAMN, IS THAT LIGHTNING MCQUEEN?!"


	2. The Start of a Trail

Mater took a deep breath, gathering himself. He tried to look down at his tires, akin to what would be looking at one's feet, but his hood obscured his view and he was partially blind anyways, due to chemical exposure from the various dangerous jobs that he'd taken on over the years. He would kill for a cigarette.

"Care for a cigarette?" Elizabeth drove out to the backside of the building, for her sixth smoking break of the day. Mater solemnly shook his head, a small rivulet of oil escaping the corner of his mouth. He put the cigarette in the opposite end.

For a time, only the wind and the sound of distant passersby stopped a complete silence between the two. The mood was frigid. Mater hadn't had to cope with a death since Sally had died all those years ago. And McQueen hadn't been the same ever since… was it possible that it _drove_ him over the edge?

"It's funny," Elizabeth started, "when the Police Cars run over the bucket, they're always 'decommissioned'. But when a civilian passes away, they've 'gone lemon'."

Elizabeth took a strong huff. Mater's eyes looked longingly over the cityscape, looking for an older, younger time.

"But there's none of that with McQueen. No word-politics. No games. Just 'severe water damage'. No slang." Elizabeth tried to look down at her tires, but her hood was in the way. "They treat him like he was a breed apart…" Mater felt his exhaust manifold clogging up, as if someone were pressing a tire onto it. In recent years he hadn't been one for sentiment… but…

"But he was no better than the rest of us." Elizabeth finished, throwing the cigarette on the ground. "He was born into privilege, and the world was astonished by his display of all the benefits entitled to him."

Mater loathed and feared the bourgeoisie, but he didn't tolerate anyone speaking ill of his friends. He tried to chastise Elizabeth, but his hoarseness was perfected by the fact that he was choked up. He was essentially muffled.

Elizabeth didn't know the relationship between Mater and McQueen, only that Mater was regularly contracted by the local government, and that McQueen was a draft dodger. Having cooled her radiator down, Elizabeth U-turned back into the building.

The room to themselves, Doc and Mugabe paced. At the end of the day, McQueen was just another pile of scrap for the junkyard… but was it a murder? Doc was certain it wasn't, but, he'd be hard-pressed to convince Mugabe it wasn't a suicide.

"He had too much to live for to drive off the pier," Doc asserted. "He was at the peak of his racing career– he had an Enron sponsorship for honking out loud."

"McQueen's family has a history of persistent depressive disorder, and a history of self-destruction. You think he was able to _steer_ clear of that after what happened to Sally? He saw the damn dash cam video, Doc. He publicly declared himself as the one to blame and 'retired' for nearly a decade." Mugabe paused, composing himself. "Look, I know you two were close, and you probably feel at least partly responsible for what happened to him, but I need you-"

"You don't know shit," Doc cut in. "It grinds my gears that my apprentice is gone… but this is more than that. I know McQueen has…" Doc stopped himself, both because he said 'has' instead of 'had', and because he wasn't sure whether he should endanger Mugabe by giving him the information.

"You better not hold out information on me. You know I'd do anything for info," Mugabe threatened. "I've even-"

"Yes, I know, you've slashed your own men's _TIRES_."

"I slashed their tires."

Doc rolled up to a wall to look out a window dramatically, but there wasn't actually a window there. It looked like there was maybe a window he could open the blinds of, but it was really dark in the room and it was just a bunch of junk piled against the wall. Afraid to look like a dumbass, Doc sifted through the junk for a little bit.

"What… what are you… doing…?"

"I'm looking for… uh…" Doc was nervous, frantically thinking for a way out of this situation. He decided to just tell Mugabe, in order to distract from his own actions. "McQueen was possibly involved in actions by the Hotwire Gang."

A visceral shaking overtook Mugabe, both disgusted to be reminded of his greatest enemies, and strangely excited for some sort of lead. "Doc, this could be big." Mugabe rolled around, processing the implications. This gave Doc an opportunity to reposition himself and escape his awkward predicament. "Doc, I've been chasing those thugs my entire career."

"Yes, I know."

"Doc." Mugabe slowly rolled around. "Why are you only telling me this now?"

Doc sighed. "I knew that if I told you, you'd chase every possible lead to find just a scrap of information on them. No matter if it meant destroying McQueen's life– or yours."

Mugabe tried to shake his head, but cars don't really work that way so he did more of a shimmy. "You KNOW that taking them down is more important than just one car's life. I'm disappointed in you. I thought your emotions didn't control you anymore, old friend."

Doc was offended; he turned to his friend. "Look at yourself, Rob." (Again, no relation to former prime minister of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe.) "That dent almost hit your fuel line. You almost exploded twenty-seven years ago, which would have been kind of cool, to tell the truth, but it would've meant you didn't have the chance to turn this town around. These hooligans have plagued the area long before we came here, and they'll be around long after." Doc swallowed. "I've lost Sally. I've lost McQueen."

Mugabe cut in, "You won't lose me."

Mater entered the room to ask Robert Mugabe for his payment, and then remembered that he still couldn't speak. Thankfully, Doc wanted Mater gone, and barked at the receptionist to take care of it. "You can leave, Mater." Doc insisted. But Mugabe rolled in front of the doorway before he had a chance. "The only ones who know that McQueen has lost his life, or that he's in this building, are you and the department. You understand?"

Mater tried to shake his head but cars don't really work like that, so it came off as a weird hydraulics malfunction.

In reality, countless cars had seen the wreckage of McQueen get rolled into the building, and Mugabe just had a pisspoor memory. Nonetheless, having agreed, Mater left.

"Oh, and Robert?" Doc called. "Can you not refer to it as life?"

"...what?"

"Well, it just feels weird saying that cars have an essence of life in them, you know. Calling it… sentience or something would make me more comfortable."

Mater collected his payment from Elizabeth, along with a note and a wink. Having left the building, Mater found the note to have Elizabeth's GPS tracking information. (This may seem very odd and perhaps off-putting, but long-distance communication is incredibly expensive in the Cars universe, and GPS access is free, due to the fact that Big Brother is alive and well in the Cars universe's United States [just as it is in ours].)

Mater stopped by a servicing station to get his manifold checked out, and voice back, and left town.

The moon was rising when Mater arrived once more at the dock. He and McQueen had spent many sunsets here, talking about life, love, and fantasy football. It wasn't possible that his buddy drowned himself… was it?

He had told himself that he would let the police handle the situation… but Mater had devoted his life to McQueen. It made no sense to let him go this easily… no, Mater would get to the bottom of this. And he'd make a lot of money doing so, so that he could support both his family and his fiscally irresponsible habits. It wasn't like Mater had no experience in detective work† after all.

"Hey!" a voice called out to Mater.

Mater spun around in a very cartoon-esque manner, trying to see who had spoken.

"Behind you."

Mater slowly turned around, shining his headlights on he who had spoken. Mater squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing. "Who… what… are… you…?"

"Oh, I'm nobody. I'm just looking for a car out here. One… Lightning McQueen."

Mater wasn't sure what this man would have to do with his dead friend, but by assisting him, Mater would either be helping someone in need or getting towards the heart of the mystery. "I may be able to take you to him," Mater whispered.

"Great," came the reply, as the man hopped into Mater's trunk.

"What can I call ya?" Mater asked.

The man thought for a moment. "Call me Baby."

* * *

 **†** _Mater's Tall Tales is quasi-canon for the sake of this story._


	3. The Duality of Shed

Solemnly rolling across his backyard, Mugabe tried- but failed- to keep his mind focused and clear. This was the lead he had been waiting his career for, and if it took him to the scrapyard, so be it.

The shed door rattled its way open, faintly illuminated by what bit of the sun crept its way through the corners of the room. Mugabe didn't need his headlights- he knew what he was looking for. The floorboards cracked under his tires, giving way to age and weight. The shelves barely held, and if scattered, the dust could clog any filter in an instant.

"Wait what the hell?"

Mugabe turned on his lights, revealing a portrait of the family next door, ruined by tear and burn. The portrait, not the family. Well, the family too. Both the painting itself and the family depicted in it were both torn up and showing clear burn marks.

Around the bottoms of the walls lay tires of various sizes… only… their tread was worn out…

"Rolling damn…"

"Justa minuta!" Mugabe could hear Guido through the door, rushing around, trying to make his living arrangements look more desirable. The door opened.

"Ah, Robert my friend, good to seeing you!" Guido smiled.

"Guido, you know you don't have to put on a face for me, we know each other better than that." Mugabe's words slowly peeled Guido's smile off his face. "Listen Guido, I know things have been hard-"

"You don't-a know-a shit Mugabe! I lost-a my job, I lost-a my custody, and I lost-a the love-a my life, all because-a a false accusation. Do you know what it feels like to _spend-a every day_ waking up and knowing that someone-a else-a got off free while I lost everything that-a mattered to me?"

Mugabe stopped himself from speaking, not wanting to upset his old friend. In truth, Mugabe _didn't_ know shit, and maybe it was better that way. That wouldn't stop him from helping in other ways though. Mugabe slowly rolled forward to meet his grieving friend. "You know I'm always next door if you need me, Guido. You've always been there for me, and I'll always be there for you."

The two grew quiet, uncomfortable with their display of affection, but not so ashamed as to prioritize it over their friendship. They would be blushing in this scene, but they are cars.

The silence slowly passed and Guido invited Mugabe inside. "You finished painting the parking room, huh? Looks swell." Guido smiled in acknowledgement, going into the kitchen to get a drink for his friend. Mugabe continued. "Say, you remember those sheds we built together, back when the missus kicked you out for three days?"

Guido chuckled, setting Mugabe's drink down. "She wassa so mad." He turned back towards the kitchen, "You always did such a great-a job keeping my mind focused and my forks-a busy."

Mugabe nodded, quoting the New Transmission Bible, "As your gears turn, let them turn in serving God." Guido smiled and nodded, pretending to understand.

Mugabe continued. "I uh… the sheds. You were right about it being a bad idea painting them the same color. Actually, I mistook yours for mine earlier today." Guido stopped dead in his tracks as Mugabe continued. "I was lookin for somethin of my own, but I guess I got distracted. I turned right back 'round once I realized I was in the wrong place, but anyhow…" Guido nervously built his speed up again, forcing a laugh.

Mugabe sniffed and went on, "Anyhow, I saw those tires you had hidden away. And doggonit, wouldn't you know it! Keepin them without signed consent is a felony, as is stated under the Auto Parts Rights Act." Guido's pupils absolutely bal _LOONED_ , his engine stalling, grasping for words but failing to reach any. "Now, I myself ain't see a problem with you keepin those tires, seein as the law is archaic and nonsensical, completely contradictin' policies in place for oil transfusions and engine donors§; and you ain't lookin to get into some impersonation scheme. I ain't gonna arrest ya."

Guido shook, skeptical of offering any thanks. "Are you… are you-a blackmailing me?"

Mugabe quietly chortled. "That would be highly unfitting for a man in my position." Mugabe took a sip. "But yes."

Mugabe finished the drink, giving Guido enough time to adequately fluctuate between seething rage at this seeming betrayal, and honest fear over what his harmless decision had just done to his life. Mugabe continued, "I wouldn't wanna hafta get the boys back at the Police [Car] Station [Wagon]‡ involved in yer… uh… more scrutable activities..." Guido gulped, which, from a human's perspective, looks and sounds incredibly terrifying and perhaps traumatizing, and so I will not be divulging further information on the matter, as the author.

Mugabe left the house, on what he viewed as "good terms," having successfully placed Guido on call to aid him in his quest to take down the Hotwire Gang. Not only that, but Mugabe could smile, knowing that he put a law-breaker in their place.

Later that evening, Mugabe returned to his backyard, entering the shed adjacent to Guido's. There, he found his personal arsenal of extremely illegal weapons.

* * *

§ _Engine donors almost kinda sounds like Organ donors_

‡ _I'm sorry_


End file.
